


I Should Be So Lucky

by DoreyG



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Community: comment_fic, Finch's lips have magical powers, John Reese's very bad not good week, M/M, Sort of 5 + 1, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first one was a dry brush of lips across his cheekbone, an absent response to an absent question. They’d both paused, stunned, for a moment in the aftermath of it – chests almost brushing, hips almost bumping. He’d had the absurd urge to just reach out, to gather Finch into his arms and do something <i>proper</i>…</p>
<p>And had been oddly, also absurdly, disappointed when Finch had instantly pulled back. Blushed a little and coughed a little and shuffled back to his work without a single glance more, “goodbye, Mr. Reese.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Should Be So Lucky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Draycevixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/gifts).



> Written for the prompt "Person of Interest, Reese/Finch, kiss for luck" at Comment_Fic. Fairly cracky, I'm afraid.

The first one was a dry brush of lips across his cheekbone, an absent response to an absent question. They’d both paused, stunned, for a moment in the aftermath of it – chests almost brushing, hips almost bumping. He’d had the absurd urge to just reach out, to gather Finch into his arms and do something _proper_ …

And had been oddly, also absurdly, disappointed when Finch had instantly pulled back. Blushed a little and coughed a little and shuffled back to his work without a single glance more, “goodbye, Mr. Reese.”

It was distracting enough that he didn’t even notice when he didn’t get punched or kicked or shot at all day, simply dropped off the number at her now safe apartment and spent the rest of the night wandering the city streets with his hands tucked into his pockets.

The second one was about a week later, more deliberate on Finch’s side but unfortunately also more absent on his. He’d been drawing back from his lean over Finch’s shoulder when it’d happened, an awkward bump of the man’s forehead against his upper arm and a muffled noise of pain.

“You’ll have to watch yourself, Harold,” he could only comment softly as he drew back fully, amused and puzzled in equal measure, “we wouldn’t want to damage your excellent brain.”

“Don’t you worry about my brain, Mr. Reese,” Finch had replied sharply, rubbing his forehead and turning a shade that could only be described as fire engine red, “especially when you have your own to be concerned with. Don’t you have a number to get to?”

That time it was _puzzling_ enough that he barely noticed when he didn’t get punched or kicked or shot at all day. It became briefly more puzzling when he found and saved the number instantly without a single hitch, but that was a minor problem and he soon managed to wave it off in favour of thinking about Finch again – wandering a different set of streets and musing over whatever that bumped forehead could mean.

The third one, as apparently decreed by _fate_ , was the opposite of before: absent on Finch’s side and deliberate on his. He aimed for the man’s neck, he’d always preferred the direct approach, but ended up soaring past a stiff bend instead – slamming the left side of his body into an inconvenient filing cabinet and getting only the briefest mouthful of hair for his troubles.

Finch was staring at him when he finally came up, green eyes narrowed with his own puzzlement and something that could _possibly_ be called concern. He tapped his fingers once on the mouse, twice before he opened his mouth, “Mr. Reese…?”

“I tripped, Finch,” he sighs, thwarted ambitions making his tone unfortunately sharp, “nothing to worry about.”

“…Uncharacteristically clumsy of you, Mr. Reese,” it takes about five seconds before Finch turns, as if magnetically pulled, back to his screen – and he’s left with his throbbing side and faint desire to slam his head into something, “now, today I want you to-“

Annoyance, oddly enough, actually _sharpened_ his senses instead of numbing them. He fully noticed how none of the people he met that day had a gun, even when they were professionals who would be at _least_ fined for not carrying a single firearm. Noted how nobody even _thought_ to reach for a blade, even when he was clearly coming right towards them. Happened to see a few of them _smile_ , even just before he broke several vital things that’d probably lead to great pain in the future.

The forth one, almost luckily, came a few days later to distract him… And ‘almost’ was the vital word there, unfortunately, as Finch deliberately stood up and marched towards him and he deliberately stayed in place and turned. And as Finch deliberately leaned up to place firm hands on his shoulders and he deliberately bent down to rest firmer hands on Finch’s waist. And as they both very, _very_ deliberately bumped both noses and teeth in a way that certainly _wasn’t_ as endearing as portrayed in the movies.

He shot back instantly, with a hand to his nose. Watched Finch do much the same with his teeth and felt, for the first time since birth, like _sinking into the ground_ , “um.”

“Fuck-!” Finch staggered back a few more steps, turned bright red at the language and then even brighter at the implications, “oh, um - _sorry_ , Mr. Reese. It won’t, er, happen again I _promise_ you.”

“What?” He asked, faintly stunned and faintly annoyed but at least with a growing urge to _punch_ the universe instead of simply sinking, “the swearing or the kissing?”

“Mr. Reese!” …He blamed Finch’s ever growing redness on that, in hindsight. You couldn’t really _think_ when you were simultaneously stunned and annoyed and wanting to punch things, it led to such mistakes as firing _flares_ instead of blanks, “my sincere apologies, again. You have a busy day of stalking- _trailing_ ahead of you, don’t you? You should probably get to that instead of standing here and letting me distract you.”

He left, obediently, without another word. Spent the rest of the day cataloguing how well things went to avoid his unfamiliar sense of embarrassment. Had almost, _again_ that vital word, managed to amuse himself with how apparently easy it was to drop the same knife sixteen times in succession by the end of the day.

…But the next day he, unwisely, decided to avoid the library and give Finch some probably much needed space. And, even more unwisely, decided on that very same day to avoid the library for a week to allow Finch to practically _drown_ in space.

On Monday he was, to his great and limitless surprise, punched three times. Once by a potential suspect, who was getting a bit itchy under repeated pressure. Once by the girlfriend of said potential suspect, who was also not fond of repeated pressure and had a far better right hook. And _once_ by a random woman on the street, who had thrown out her phoneless hand at exactly the wrong moment and sent him careening wildly into a wall.

On Tuesday he managed, also to his profound surprise, to get kicked four times. Twice by the same man, the brother of that unfortunate potential subject and a rather grumpy individual besides. Once by a police officer, who had rather overestimated his reach. Once by _another_ random woman on the subway, with high heels that’d had him nobly restraining hops for at least an hour and a half.

On Wednesday he managed to get shot at five times - which was so surprising that the surprise hardly warranted a mention, really. The not-so-potential suspect’s girlfriend was, as it turned out, a worryingly almost-accurate shot for a woman of five foot - who almost took off his left ear _twice_. A cop tried to be a hero while he was fleeing the scene, managed to squeeze off a shot into a dumpster before Carter apologetically tackled him and presumably yelled a great deal. A gun store owner yelled another apology as a stray bullet almost went into his knee as he was crossing the road back to his temporary hotel. And by the time a gunfight broke out in the building across from him at three in the morning he was almost on the point of a _sigh_

On Thursday he was slapped by the rather annoyed number – he found, in a rather dull way, that he’d gone beyond surprise as she marched sniffily up the stairs.

On Friday he was dive bombed by roughly six pigeons.

On Saturday he was almost hit by seven cars, five taxis, three buses and one rather confused looking man riding a tricycle.

And, by Sunday, he’d had _enough_. He arrived at the library a few hours earlier than he’d planned, wet and hopefully not looking like he’d almost fallen down a manhole after almost tripping face first into cement. Stood, cold and annoyed and with that urge to punch the universe merrily surging back into life, until Finch finally bustled into the room – blinked a little at his presence, then frowned, then blushed.

“Kiss me,” he demanded, before a single question could be asked.

“ _What_?” Finch simply looked at him like he was a madman, drifted a little closer and absently brushed an unaccountable watermelon seed off the shoulder of his jacket, “I must say, Mr. Reese, that I was expecting a little more _finesse_ if you ever actually asked such a question-“

“In the past week I have been punched three times, kicked four times, shot at five times, slapped once, dive bombed by multiple pigeons, almost hit by seven cars, almost ran over by five taxis, almost crushed by three buses and very nearly knocked into the road by a confused man on a three wheeled bike. I’ve tolerated people trying to drown me, push me down manholes and trip me face first into cement. I’m pretty sure that I was almost killed via piano, and apparently have endured a narrow brush with a murderous watermelon just a few minutes ago,” he accounted flatly, stepped closer and tried not to look _too_ pleading, “your lips have magical powers, of an unaccountable nature. Kiss me before I die and leave you to cover my funeral arrangements, Harold.”

…Finch kept looking at him like he was a madman, only swayed a little closer – their chests _still_ not brushing the slightest bit, “you _surely_ can’t believe that, Mr. Reese.”

“The watermelon clinched it,” he gave dryly, and half wondered if the back of his suit was covered in murderous little seeds “… _Please_? If you want to go the cheesy route, which I am entirely capable of doing, I really don’t want to die until I’ve made you yell my name at least _once_. And possibly made you sob a little, for a sense of completion.”

And Finch just _snorted_ at that, like he was being highly stupid. Finally pressed both palms to his chest, he supposed that was something, and rested them there for a few minutes – almost as if absorbing his heartbeat, making sure that he was just being idiotic and nowhere near actually threatened.

…The fifth one came as just as much of a surprise as the multiple fists and unfortunate heels. He froze for an involuntary second before relaxing into it, resting his hands on Finch’s narrow waist again and quickly closing his eyes. The wrap of Finch’s arms around his neck led to a brief smile, one soon smoothed away by an opportune curve of the man’s warmly talented mouth. They pressed closer against each other, breathing deep and rocking just slightly, for at least a minute before he dared to open his mouth and coax Finch deeper. And then- and _then_ -

 

\--

 

He woke Finch up in the morning by nakedly rolling on top of him, tolerated his ruffled glare for a few seconds before bursting into a bright grin and edging just that little bit _closer_.

“No good morning kiss for luck, Harold?”

As it turned out the ruffled look lasted for only a few moments before being replaced by something that could be roughly called fond exasperation. He grinned a little wider in response, helped to lever Finch up into an only slightly awkward sitting position before edging in that final bit closer.

“For the poor watermelons, John,” Finch sighed softly, just before their lips touched, “ _luck_ has nothing to do with it.”

The sixth one, wonderfully enough, lasted for longer than the other five combined: and he was very pleased, hours later, to find that not a _single_ shot had been fired anywhere near his head for the whole day long.


End file.
